


New Heaven and Earth

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his return to England, Francis Drake must confront the man he accused of mutiny.  Angst ensues, Thomas cries on Leonard's shoulder, and there's gratuitous bdsm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Heaven and Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alinewrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alinewrites/gifts).



Leonard Vicarye bounded up the stairs, entering Thomas’ room without knocking.  “He is here,” he said breathlessly.  “Drake is here, at the Inn.”

 

Thomas did not look up from reading his Bible.  “Is he?  Then Hatton’s letter was correct.”

 

“I shall tell him to get himself gone.”

 

“Thou shalt do no such thing, Leonard, for I will see him.”

 

Vicarye hurled his floppy hat upon the table and pulled up a chair across from Thomas.  “Thou canst not possibly entertain such a thing, Thomas.”

 

Thomas looked up briefly, raised an eyebrow, and returned to his reading.  He did not intend to discuss this with Leonard – not now.  Not even though Leonard knew everything, things that Doughtie would not even confess to a preacher.  Or perhaps it was because Leonard knew everything.  Leonard would not allow his old friend to delude himself.  What could Thomas hope to gain anyway?  Nothing could make the past vanish.

 

“Thomas!  It is not safe!”  Leonard was not joking.  He had spent seven months of misery with his heart in his mouth.  He remembered his growing shock that Drake was even more of a danger to them than the wildest sea-storms.

 

“Thinkest thou he will murder me here, in a den of lawyers?”  Thomas tried to put a strain of amusement in his voice, a strain of the old arrogance.  The old arrogance was hard to come by – the discovery that a whole fleet could be turned against a gentleman by a bitter lover and a common carpenter’s lying words was not easily forgotten.  No matter how the gentlemen of London strutted and preened, Doughtie knew that privilege was a garment made from the delicately woven fabric of order, that such a fabric could be rent most easily should mad panic visit men’s hearts.  One had only to look at Paris upon that St. Bartholomew’s Day, less than a decade ago.

 

“I will at least stay with thee, Thomas.”  Truly, it was not just Thomas’ physical safety that had concerned Leonard.  There were times when, in the deep of the night, he had come to visit his friend only to hear him sob, or cry out in the grip of a nightmare.

 

“Nay, my friend.  I would speak with the Captain General alone.”

 

“In spite of all, thou lovest him yet still,” he accused.

 

Thomas looked away.  There was nothing for a while except the sound of rain, and the clacking of hooves against the wet stones on the street below.  Then, before Thomas could affirm or deny the claim, a heavy, familiar tread was upon the stair.

 

Leonard opened the door.  “Vicarye,” said Drake.  “So crafty lawyers still crowd together, like geese.”

 

Thomas shot a sharp look at Vicarye.  There was a contest of wills; as usual, Vicarye lost.  He bowed his head slightly, then exited.

 

Doughtie thought he had prepared himself for this, but the sight of Francis Drake was still a shock to his system.  His heart raced, whether from fear or misplaced passion, he knew not.  He ached, he burned, he wished himself and Captain Drake and the whole of England swallowed by the seas.  He lowered his eyes.  “So thy love of gold is yet greater than thy pride,” he said lightly.

 

Drake was characteristically blunt.  “The profits of my venture were ever foremost in my mind.  I would have killed you, Thomas Doughtie.  To apologize seems a small thing in comparison.”

 

Doughtie forced a smile.  He would not let Drake see how much this hurt.  He had not given Drake that satisfaction at St. Julian; he would not give Drake the satisfaction now.  “A right strange apology, good Captain, that is wrapped around a threat.”

 

“Take the offer, Master Doughtie.  Your share in the venture in exchange for your testimony on my behalf ‘gainst King Philip’s charges.”  It was not an inconsiderable sum of money - £23,000 on a five hundred pound investment.  It would make Thomas Doughtie one of the wealthiest men in England.

 

“My honor is worth more than gold,” Doughtie replied.  It was a truthful statement – if it was not the absolute truth of the matter.

 

“Your name will be cleared through this.  No man will believe you guilty of mutiny if apportioned such a large share of the profit.  Our differences will fade into forgotten rumor.”

 

“Methinks milord Burghley would ne’er forgive me.  Give me some credit for loyalty, Francis.”

 

Drake grinned bitterly.  “Loyalty, Thomas?  The Queen herself questions that loyalty – and ‘tis she who commands this.  She – and the other investors – would that the silver were not locked beyond reach in the Tower.  But more so, she doth desire that thy endless plaints be not the excuse for every malcontent in these isles to cry for the return to power of ancient, neglected houses.”

 

Doughtie understood.  The common-born Drake’s treatment of the gentleman Doughtie had become an example of how order and rule were being slighted under Elizabeth’s regime.  He had become a rallying point for men of old names, many with ties to rival claimants for the throne, many with old Catholic roots.  For the duration of her reign, Elizabeth had taken great care to soothe these men while sidestepping them, cannily surrounding herself with commoners who lacked the old loyalties, men whose only loyalties would be to her, such as Francis Drake.  If he refused to accept Drakes generous offer, it would clearly put him into the conservative faction, and the Queen’s disfavor.

 

“Milord Burghley doth love our Queen with the truest of hearts,” Drake pressed.  “He will not oppose her in this, for he doth perceive the matter extendeth well beyond the Spanish King’s ire of the moment.  He would restore peace to the realm.”

 

Night entered the gates of London, casting shadows.  Doughtie stood and walked to the window, pulling fast the curtains.  His voice was distant.  “Were it not for the courage of John Wynter, I might be a headless corpse left buried in the cold sands of St. Julian’s Bay.”  There was such weariness in Doughtie’s voice – he might have been dead already.  He had his life, yes, but there seemed to be nothing in heaven or earth to console him.

 

Drake sat in the vacant chair, still warm from the heat of Thomas’ body.  To Doughtie, he seemed to claim the apartment, to fill it entirely.  It was always the same, had been the same from the beginning in Ireland.   Where Drake was, there was no space for Thomas Doughtie.  “Wynter is a coward who but uses you to excuse his own cowardice,” Drake said.  “Now he doth make show that he consented not to piracy, and makes doe-eyes at King Philip.”

 

Doughtie continued to stare at the closed curtain, seeming not to hear.  Leonard had been right.  He should have refused to see Drake.  There was nothing left to be said between them.  It was obvious that Drake shared the sentiment; they had improbably managed to avoid each other since Drake’s return.  For a moment he was on the _Swan_ again, telling anyone who would listen that he and Drake would be reunited, fast friends again at the next harbor.  It had been over two years since the trial at St. Julian, and he still felt this desolate.  “Why do you hate me, Francis?” he asked.

 

Drake’s face fell.  Something seemed drained from him.  There was a weariness about him too, a mood that was new to Thomas.  “Have you no sack, or is hospitality forgotten in entire?”

 

Thomas had to smile.  Even in his most depressed state, Drake was still audacious.  The gentleman poured two glasses of his best malmsey, placing one in front of Drake and downing the other quickly – which he regretted immediately.  Alcohol had never improved their behavior.  It put them at each other’s throats – or in each other’s arms.  He had been drunk the night he had first acquiesced to Drake’s sinful demands.  Had he been sober, perhaps they could have continued to love each other as fast companions.  Perhaps none of this would have occurred.  But probably not.  Doughtie poured a second glass.

 

“Thomas,” said Drake, lowering his voice, “thy reticence profits no one, neither you, nor I, nor the mariners, nor the gentleman investors, no, not e’en the Queen herself.  If there is no forgiveness in thy heart, then let there be the seeming of forgiveness so that we may at least have silver to shew for our pains.”

 

What right had Drake to slip into the familiar, to use that tone of voice he had used those nights in Dublin, under the stars?  Thomas could refuse nothing when Drake spoke to him in that way.  Not to invest his money, not to risk his life chasing some grandiose chimera to the Perwe, not to spend his soul’s inheritance for a few sordid moments of pleasure.  Doughtie held the winning hand, but Drake would still best him.  He blinked back the tears.

 

Drake stood and went to the sideboard, helping himself to the wine.  “What is’t thou desirest of me, Thomas?  A greater share of the treasure?  Shall I petition the Queen to give to thee a lordship?”

 

“Once there was a man I loved dear as a brother – I trusted him with my life and fortune.  And after much travail, he sought to deprive me of both, but only after he shewed to me his utter contempt for my counsel and my status.  What can he give to me now?  Can he undo what has been done?  My pride cries aloud in the streets for vengeance, and there is no salve for my heart.”

 

“Thomas, right glad was I to find a way to spare thee, e’en though it cost me the help of the _Elizabeth_.”

 

“Liar!  Base liar!  Else why persuade Ned Bright to perjure himself?”  Doughtie turned to face Drake, who met his eyes.  Yet the Captain General was silent.

 

“It grows cold,” said Doughtie after a moment.  “Shall I light the fire?”

 

“Anon?” asked Drake.  “Anon and anon, thou lightest fires which have no quenching.”

 

“We swore to speak no more of this when we left Eire.”  Doughtie bent close to the hearth, placing his hands upon the cold stone so that Drake could not see them shaking.  Didn’t he know that temptation had always walked in their footsteps?  Didn’t he see through Doughtie’s pretence of arrogance, of distance?  Thomas looked up suddenly and read Drake, unmistakably, the way he had always read him.  There was pain and distrust writ on his face.  Then he really had believed the gentleman capable of mutiny.  Was it Doughtie’s own fault that Drake had come to hate him?

 

His head swam.  It was impossible to think clearly in Drake’s presence.  He should have made an amulet to combat an enemy’s undue influence.  He should have made two – one being a pouch filled with amethyst and lavender to assure chaste sobriety.

 

“We swore to renounce our sins,” said Drake.  “But we did not succeed.  I could struggle ‘gainst the raging dragon-fire of my own blood wert thou to keep only a cold Bible for thy bedfellow, but thou didst play the tart with every mariner in the fleet.”

 

“Infidelity, betrayal, mutiny – all the phantasms of a jealous mind!” said the outraged Doughtie, standing.  “God save me, no man e’er touched me but thee.  Think you I would throw myself into the devil’s fires for a common sailor?”

 

“Aye, I knew thou wouldst say such things, Thomas Doughtie,” Drake hurled back.  “It was a surety that if I spared thee, thou wouldst return to England to mock me.  Were it not for Wynter, thou wouldst be cold in the grave, and my heart assuaged.  Swounds, I wish it so; I wish thee dead so that thou wilt live to betray no more.”

 

Doughtie didn’t quite laugh – it would have been funny if it weren’t so twisted.  “And just a moment past, good Captain, thou didst swear my death was not thy desire.  Thy desires seem to be most changeable in nature.”

 

Drake did not answer.  Furious, he covered the room in three long paces, grabbing Doughtie and forcing him back against the wall.  Their lips met; Doughtie’s cock stiffened inside of his codpiece.  They were pressed so tightly together, he was sure Drake would notice.  Thomas had believed that nothing in heaven or earth could console him.  The kiss made clear he had not considered the consolations of hell. 

 

“Toy with me no more, Thomas Doughtie, for I am no man to sport with,” Drake growled.  “Slattern thou art, but thou shalt be no whore.  Take the silver, and thou shalt be the most expensive mistress in London – or refuse it, and I shall strangle thee afore I see thy wanton gazes fall ‘pon the pretty lads at court.”

 

For a moment, Thomas looked shocked, then shattered.  Then his expression hardened.  He had reached a decision.  “I will take the silver for my part in the venture,” said he.  “And so that none should think the Queen sheweth greater favor to thee when thou art given the accolade, I will that she make me the governor of Nova Albion – that land thou hast claimed for England ‘pon the far shores of the American continent.”

 

Drake was surprised.  He hadn’t really expected Thomas to capitulate.  “Easily done,” he said.  It was a land too distant for England’s practical interest.  The Queen had nothing to lose by granting Thomas an office which would be basically ceremonial.

 

But Doughtie had not finished.  There was a strange light in his eyes, their faces still intimately close.  Drake would never admit it, but he was frightened.  Thomas was sly, a sorcerer.  Drake was a man who loathed uncertainty, for whom bold action was the best respite.  Nothing was too daring an act, too great a risk, if it dispelled the unknown.  But with Thomas he was never certain.  How he loved the gentleman; how he wished him dead.

 

“And thou shalt sign my commission stating that I have authority o’er all in the colonial fleet – including thee, Captain Drake.” 

 

“Thou dost surely jest, Thomas.  Did I not say I was no man to toy with?”

 

“This time, thou shalt accompany me to the west, good Captain.  I sailed with thee to make of thee a knight, now sail with me to make of me a governor.”

 

Oh no, it could not be.  He would not sail with Thomas again.  There was not the strength in him to fight that battle anon, his will against his heart, his loins against his god.  This time, there could be no fantasy at the start, however tenuous, no dream that some warm night off the coast of Afric, the gentleman might open his thighs and say, “Take what is thine, my captain,” thus ending forever all such unprofitable divisions.  Drake struck hard with words sharp as his blade.  “Wilt thou abandon me then, off the coast of Brazil, for thy revenge?”

 

“I have no desire to e’er lay eyes again upon those bitter waters,” said Doughtie, his voice catching a bit.  “We shall sail east, round the horn of Africa.”

 

The plan was too absurd to be taken seriously.  “Thou art mad!” cried Drake, pulling away from him.  “Lust for vengeance hath driven thee from thy senses.”

 

“I say I want nothing of vengeance.  In Eire thou didst promise me that we would sail the Pacific together as fast companions.  Ne’er did I see those waters, Francis.  Ne’er did I know again thy good regard from that day I swore to stay chastely from thy bed.”

 

“Thomas,” said Drake, again in that half-cajoling tone, “We cannot sail a fleet colonial through waters claimed by Spain and Portugal.  We shall be eaten alive.”

 

“Art thou not Drake, the Dragon?  El Draco?  And am I not, by thy reckoning, the greatest conjuror in England, next to Doctor Dee?  Wilt thou have thy treasure, Francis?  Wilt thou have me?  Then I will have this, or I will have nothing.”

 

This thing could not be – and yet it had to be.  Drake needed to claim the treasure to prove that it wasn’t all for nothing.  And the Queen would command it; she had everything to gain and nothing to lose by indulging Thomas in his folly.  Drake could bear no more.  He bounded down the stairs, nearly knocking over poor Leonard Vicarye, who had been listening, huddled upon the stoop.

 

Vicarye was miserable – the last thing he wanted to do was spend another year at sea.  Well, that wasn’t quite true – the last thing he wanted to do was send Thomas off alone with that madman, Drake, and so, that night, he fetched his sea chest out of storage.

 

Weeks passed, and the fleet assembled.  Publicly, Drake extolled the virtues of founding the new colony, privately he was confused.  The thought of Thomas as his commander infuriated him; the boldness of the venture had begun to excite him; and the prospect of renewing their former relationship tortured him with inconvenient fires.  He thought a lot about the failure of their other venture.  It was Thomas’ pride that was at fault, yes, but perhaps the real sticking-point had been Thomas’ self-imposed chastity.  If only the gentleman were made to know his place in bed, surely knowing his place on ship would follow.

 

 

The flagship was large, well-appointed, and mercifully free of the women, children and cattle abundant in the rest of the fleet.  There was a large regiment of soldiers placed under Doughtie’s command.  The cabin he was to share with Drake was even larger than the one on the _Pelican_.  This time, they did not creep off as quickly and quietly as possible once the Queen sent her permission.  There was no need – for this venture was quite legal.  England’s claim on Nova Albion was legitimate, and so it was necessary to make a grand show of that legitimacy.  This time, an enormous procession met them at the Plymouth docks for a royal send-off.  Thomas was formerly given the charter for the colony; Drake was knighted.

 

Drake was edgy as the fleet departed, wondering how things would go in close quarters with Doughtie.  They had both made pretense of polite regard; how long could the fragile peace hold?  The wind was favorable, the sky cerulean.  All in all, a much more pleasant departure than the last time.  He bustled about, familiarizing himself with the men, making sure that discipline was perfect.  He dined with the officers, delaying as much as possible the moment when he would have to confront Doughtie alone.

 

But when he closed the door to their cabin and turned to face Doughtie, the gentleman was holding out a coil of rope.  “Tie me,” he said.

 

Drake, for once in his life, was speechless.

 

“Tie me!” Doughtie commanded.  “But forget not that I command here.”

 

Stiffly, Drake obeyed.  He suspected some trick – perhaps that Doughtie would cry out for help and accuse him of mutiny.  Still, it lacked subtlety.  The time for such tricks would be far into the venture, when the men were unhappy and looking for a scapegoat.  Drake grimaced, suddenly ashamed.  He had used such careful plotting against Thomas.

 

Doughtie knelt in front of the bed, hands bound behind his back.  What game was he playing?  The sight of Thomas at his mercy made Drake flush with desire.  He had felt the same when he had tied Doughtie to the mast, but that time, he had pushed it away.  That time, the stakes were for real – Doughtie really was at his mercy, and so honor forbade action.  Drake had been quite capable of killing Doughtie, but he was no rapist.  He would leave Thomas that much dignity, for once he had loved the man.

 

“I was told that thou didst unseat thy preacher, chaining Fletcher to the bulkhead and performing the mass of thy own accord,” said Doughtie.

 

“Aye,” said Drake, abashed.  He was a little ashamed of it; it was bold, even for him.  But it had probably been worth the risk, considering how amusing the Queen had found the incident.

 

“Then surely thou canst hear mine own confession, and scourge me for the good of my soul,” said Doughtie.

 

“Aye,” Drake rasped.  The thought of scourging Doughtie made his heart nearly leap out of his chest.  He would hardly allow theological subtleties to deter him.

 

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” said Doughtie.  “I am guilty of a most heinous and uncontrollable lust, guilty of the unnatural desire for sodomy.  For when I did love Captain Drake, mine affections tended not towards hearty good companionship, for which any Englishman might rejoice, but towards gross lewdness.  Aye, though I left him alone on Ireland’s shores, even when I returned to London, my nights were haunted with feverish dreams of him.  Oft did I envision him in his nakedness, myself impaled upon his sword.  ‘Twas not only in mind, but in deed, for such visions did urge me to the sin of Onan.  I would lie upon my stomach, thinking of him atop me, my thighs spread, my loins grinding against my poor, o’ertaxed and o’erstained sheets.”

 

Drake’s mouth was dry.  Was this a game – or were Doughtie’s spiritual torments real?  He thought quickly, plotting how to turn this to his advantage.  “Thou art not the only man to have sinned, my son,” he said.  He yanked a small washcloth out of his sea chest and tied it tightly around Doughtie’s mouth.  “I will scourge thee, but think it best to mute thy cries,” he said, “for I shall spare thee not.”  He lifted the gentleman easily and positioned him so that he was bent over the bed.  Then, in the custom of naval discipline, he removed breeches and stockings, baring Doughtie’s naked buttocks.  Doughtie’s cock bobbed free, erect and moist.  “Thou shouldst have confessed thy sins long before,” Drake said quietly. 

 

He beat Doughtie until the gentleman’s backside was covered with pleasingly pink welts.  Even so, he went a bit easier with the flogging than he would have liked.  It would not do to have the commander of the expedition limping around the ship come the morrow.  Yet when he finished, he was surprised to see tears in Doughtie’s eyes.  “Did I cause thee so much harm?” he asked as he removed the gag.

 

“Harm?  No harm other than to fuel my lust all the more.  When e’en harsh punishment fails to quench these fires, then what hope is there for my soul?”  Indeed, the beating had done nothing to dampen Thomas’ excitement.  Looking at his beautiful, swollen lips, Drake fancied that the pain had increased his desire.

 

“Thomas,” said Drake, keeping his voice level despite his own inner heat, “I shall make a pact with thee.  Each night I shall try to beat the devil out of thee, but if thou dost cry for mercy, I shall deliver it.”  Drake was quite certain that Thomas would not be begging him to stop the pain.  No, enough pain and Thomas would beg to be fucked from one tropic to the next.  “Indeed, I know where the devil makes his habitation, and I shall chase him out,” he said, inspired.  “It will be the cause of much discomfort.”  He tied the gag yet again, then rolled up his sleeve.  And then he went hard, very hard on the gentleman, yet knowing the spot to hit with the ball of his fist until Thomas convulsed in a wild orgasm.  In Ireland, Thomas had never been so wanton.  And after such rough treatment, he made no complaint at all when Drake took him, fucked him fast and deep.

 

The peculiar scenario, Doughtie’s strange and sacrilegious desires, only added more spice to long deprivation.  It was good for Drake, so very damn good.  But when they finished, the governor crawled into the sheets and curled into a ball.  “Leave me, Francis,” he said.  “Sleep in thine own bed.”

 

And so it went for the first few weeks of the voyage.  When Thomas wasn’t throwing himself into his role of being an exemplary commander, he was throwing himself into debauchery.  After a while, he gave up the pretence that scourging would cleanse his sins, since both pain and pleasure ended invariably in the spilling of seed.  So when he commanded Drake to tie one leg to each bedpost, sodomize him with a broomstick, and drip candle tallow upon his cock, both knew that it was to fulfill his increasingly insatiable desires.

 

Duty and degeneracy kept Doughtie from pondering the questions that really mattered: why did he still love Drake?  And could he love Drake without forgiving him for all that had passed?  And what kind of fool was he for wanting to relive the nightmare that severed them?  This was quite by design.

 

And so perhaps it was also by design to force Drake’s hand, to make him be the one to raise the impossible questions.  One long, sultry night, some forty days out of England,  far down the coast of Africa, Doughtie had demanded of Drake what had become one of the gentleman’s favorite pastimes: Drake was to prick Thomas’ cock lightly with a sewing needle until he came.  It was something Drake had learned to do quite skillfully – and also to prolong it as much as possible.  Drake loved to see Thomas helpless in the face of his own lusts; it gave the Captain General a greater feeling of power than even commanding an entire fleet.

 

As usual, once Thomas had reached his climax, Drake tied his hands behind his back and fucked him, fucked him hard and deep.  It seemed to take forever before Drake came and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to untie Thomas.  Doughtie scarcely seemed to care, so limp was he, so passive.  But when Drake rolled over next to him, he pulled away.  “Get thee to thy place, Francis,” he said wearily.

 

Drake had had quite enough of being exiled to the other side of the room.  It bothered him more than he would have anticipated.  He found himself strangely nostalgic for those first weeks in Ireland, where each evening they had lain in each other’s arms, tenderly, yet chastely, fighting the chill air of March.  So now that Doughtie was bound and exhausted, so it seemed the ideal time to take a stand.  “I would stay with thee in thy bed this evening, Thomas.”

 

“Wherefore?  ‘Tis not cold, far from it.  There is no need to share warmth.”

 

“There is my need, Thomas.”

 

Doughtie raised a lazy eyebrow.  “I should have thought that need quite sated but a moment hence.”

 

“I speak not of the needs of the flesh, but of the heart.”

 

“Then speak not at all,” snapped Doughtie.  “By day, thou dost keep the fleet in good order, and come sunset, so dost thou keep me.  Art still unsatisfied?”

 

“I loved thee well, Thomas.”

 

“Aye, and tore that love to ribbons.”

 

“I was not alone in that,” Drake retorted.

 

“So, thou dost admit thy complicity,” said Thomas.

 

Drake was silent.  After a moment, Thomas rolled over, turning his back on his companion.  Drake dressed and went out on deck, slamming the door behind him.  When he had gone, Thomas buried his head in the pillow, allowing the tears to come for the first time since they had left England.  He cursed Drake for putting love back on the table.  He didn’t know how he could possibly love Francis after all that had happened – but didn’t know how to stop loving him either.  And love always made complex the simplicity of sin.  If he didn’t care about Drake, why should Doughtie care if he burned in hell?  For that matter, why care if they both did?  But if he truly loved Francis, he had to save his beloved from the disease of unnatural lust.

 

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.  “Thomas?”

 

Doughtie groaned, groggy with sleep.  “Leonard?”

 

Vicarye opened the door, not waiting to be denied entrance.  “The Captain General stands alone at the prow in a mood most foul.  I surmise thou didst quarrel with him.”

 

Doughtie rolled over, propping himself on an elbow.  “He spoke to me of love, Leonard.  How dare he?”

 

“This displeases thee, my friend?”  Leonard sat on the side of the bed, not knowing why he was surprised.  Thomas was sick to death with love for this man who tried to have him killed.  So of course he refused when he was offered the thing he most wanted – perhaps fatally angering Drake with rejection.  It made as much sense as anything Thomas did – which was none at all.  Leonard sighed.

 

“I am ill, Leonard, with sick love and filthy sin.”

 

“Thou art addle-pated from the reading of too many books.  A wise man would ne’er have taken up with that foul pirate.  A fool would – understanding the nature of his own soul – offer his adoration ‘pon bended knee.  Since wisdom is forlorn, ‘twould be better for thee to be a live fool than a dead jackanapes.”

 

Doughtie sat up in the bed abruptly, almost laughing.  “What?  Speakest thou so?  Thou dost despise Francis Drake, Leonard, I know it to be so.”

 

“Aye.  I love thee most assuredly, friend Thomas, and would see thee in better company than that blackguard.  But if there were a cure for thy madness, methinks we would have found it.  Years have passed, and much unspeakable has happened, and still thy blighted heart pines.”

 

“I will not serve him, Leonard.  He will not win.”

 

“Then shall you lose, the pair of ye.  But serve him only as a lover.  Let him keep to his sphere, thee to thine.  He shall command the fleet and thou the soldiers – and thou shalt rule ‘pon land, he at sea.”

 

“So was my design.  But he will have me Leonard, in soul as well as body…and if I offer again my love, how can I offer depravity?  I will not stand for it – will not take that which must of nature be pure and cover it in filth.”

 

Leonard checked himself from expressing his consternation.  He had expected that sooner or later, Doughtie would make such a protest.  It was a common enough attitude, shared most often by churchmen and fine ladies.  Who were – as his father had often pointed out – singularly lacking in robust good health.  “The bullock is full of life and strength,” the physician had said to his son, “and sheweth not delicacy of nerves when mounting his mate.  Thinkest thee that Our Lord frowns ‘pon it?  Did He not say, ‘Be fruitful and multiply?’”  Leonard was grateful to have been raised with such a practical view.  The Doughties, like many gentle families, were hip deep in sorcery and sex kinks, and constantly crying to heaven about their blighted souls.

 

“Thomas,” he said, “Sir Francis doth desire thee in a fleshly manner.  If thou lovest him, canst not sacrifice thyself for that which he needs?”  Leonard felt smugly that this was the winning argument.

 

Not so.  Indeed, Doughtie had always bested Leonard in the mock courtrooms at the Inn.  “But if his love is steeped in baseness, is’t love at all?  Is mine?”  Doughtie was serious – the point was agonizing for him.  Leonard had to keep reminding himself of this over and over.  To him, it was ridiculous.

 

The door opened without warning.  Drake took a step in, saw Leonard, then took a step back.  “You have company, Master Doughtie,” he said coldly.  “I shall return later…”

 

“Nay, stay, good Captain,” said Leonard hastily.  “I shall not keep you from your rest.”  Leonard stood and practically leapt for the door.  “But Thomas, think upon my words.”  Then he was gone.

 

“His words?” said Drake, with that forced lightness that Thomas knew so well was an enormous warning.  “What advice did Master Vicarye give to you, I wonder?”

 

“To unite body, heart and soul and place them at thy feet, taking no care for my eternal portion, but every care that I relinquish not my power as governor.”

 

Drake roared with laughter.  “For a lawyer, Vicarye is a plainspoken man,” he said.  “Most sensible.”

 

“Wherefore speakest thou of love, Francis?  Could love survive that hatred great enough to desire my death?”

 

Drake shook his head.  “Thou hast lofty ideals, Thomas.  I have only great passion.  That hatred, that love, and the burning lust which ne’er gives me quiet – they are all one.  Give me that Thomas who shares his every secret, who looks into mine eyes with unhidden adoration, who cries out with animal pleasure when I take him roughly, that man is my beloved, and I shall deliver to him the world.  But deny me, countermand me, speak thy secrets with hot breath into the ears of others, and I would destroy thee to assuage the pain of thy base betrayal.”

 

“S’wounds, Francis, I long to hear thee swear to me thy love - but I know well thy word means naught should a man go against thy will.”

 

“I am no fool, Thomas.  Thou art not the only man who can learn a hard lesson.  For two years I lived without thee.”  He sat on the bed and closed his eyes.  His voice again carried the weariness that Thomas had heard when he had come to the Inn – or was it sadness?  “Had I achieved my deign, ‘twould have been a lifetime.  I have taken much thought on that.”

 

“Wouldst have missed my company, Francis?”

 

“’Twas when we took the silver ship, that I did laugh and was near to say, ‘Here is the bounty I promised thee, Thomas.’  But thou hadst returned to England, and I knew my news must wait.  And I knew it would be a cause of gall to thee, not celebration, and that made my heart right sore.”

 

“Thou didst promise wealth and the good regard of our Queen, and I have these things,” said Thomas.  “And I did promise to accompany thee and to invest in thy impossible dream – which I fulfilled.  And here we sail upon the Pacific together.  So there is but one promise left broken, that promise we made after but a week’s company in Eire – that promise to hold each other as fast friends, inseparable for a lifetime.”

 

“We lied,” said Drake.  “We were never friends.  For e’en as we spoke those words, did we not drown in each other’s eyes?”

 

Doughtie remembered.  He remembered what it was like to be so hopelessly, carelessly in love, to be in love before lust or jealousy or the small-mindedness of the men around them played upon their fears.  He began to weep openly, something he had not done in front of Francis since the Rathlin massacre.  “Would we were those men again!” he sobbed.

 

Drake remembered also.  He remembered that it wasn’t just about the money, or besting King Philip, or becoming a knight.  He remembered that once he had shared a dream with someone he loved more than he had believed possible.  He realized that everything he had gained – and lost – since that moment was a result of that love.  He said now – he could say – the thing he knew was true, the thing he might once have denied to his dying day: “Without thee, Thomas, my success is no success.”

 

He could say it now because it was no longer an admission.  It was a resolve.  Perhaps it was the set of his jaw, the tone of his voice, but Thomas understood perfectly.  His life was no longer in danger.  Nor was it any longer his own.  Somewhere within him was a proud gentleman who railed at Drake’s presumption, the same man that had done everything possible to spite Francis Drake for presuming his obeisance before.  For a moment it seemed that two men stood on the spot which held Thomas Doughtie’s soul.  It shocked him.  He had felt so righteous.  He had not fully realized his own motive in antagonizing Drake.

 

It disgusted him, this pride.  It tasted like metal, metal in a world that was flooding now with wine and honey.  Behind Drake the rising sun shone through the window, enveloping his hair in an aureole of fire.  Had they been up all night?

 

He stood.  Love, lust, the heat of the day, perhaps the lack of sleep – it was all too much for him.  He lowered himself to his knees.  It was more comfortable than he could have believed.  He looked up at Drake with shining eyes, eyes that were fixed only upon the blazing light before him.  “I am thy man,” he said.  “Thy leman, thy servant, thy good companion.”  Nothing weighed upon him any more, not fear, nor shame, nor guilt.  He opened himself, waiting to be taken.

 

When Francis Drake was twelve years old, he had been knocked from the deck of a pinnace.  He was in the water but a few minutes; in that time he understood that the sea could swallow a man.  The sea could beckon, could storm, could divulge all her treasures, and yet was still the sea.  It didn’t matter; the man who had the sea in his bones couldn’t help himself.  No matter her treachery, no matter the danger, that man would always return to her.  Young Francis had stopped struggling then, let his body drift, waiting for the rope that might or might not come.  It was out of his hands; fighting it made it worse.

 

There was a kiss; the flood came.  There was a dove, an olive branch; perhaps later, a pair would emerge in a new land to rebuild a world.  But for now, they stood, spent, beaten, irrationally happy.  Love had defeated them utterly.

 


End file.
